


All things in time, time will reveal

by TuppingLiberty



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Just wanted to tag possible triggers, Lots of really heavy tags but this is very fluffy and romantic I promise, Love Letters, M/M, Parental Death, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 17:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty
Summary: Neither Chirrut nor Baze wanted to go to their 10 year high school reunion, but then they -literally- bump into each other, and something sparks.Title is from Brian McKnight's "Back at One"





	All things in time, time will reveal

**Author's Note:**

> CW: one use of the f-slur as part of period-typical homophobia (period: late 1990s); referenced abusive relationship between Baze and his mother

**1999**

His mom taps him on the knee, and Chirrut pulls his headphones off and hits stop on his Discman.

“We’re here, hun,” she says cheerfully. “You’re about a hundred steps to the gate, and I see Lyra there. Did you want to stay for the game?”

Chirrut chews his lip. It’s not normally his thing, attending the football games. He prefers the echoing chaos of basketball to listen to. Outdoors, the sound drifts too much and it’s hard to focus. But it’s Homecoming, and he’s singing the National Anthem, and there’s going to be a bonfire after, which should be fun even if the team wins or loses. And all of his choir friends have told him they’re coming tonight.

“I’ll stay. See you at the gate at 10?”

“Sounds good, Cheery.”

He blushes and grumbles at the infantile nickname. “Mo-om.”

“Good luck with the anthem.” She pats his knee again, and he makes a point of getting out of the car as quickly as possible. It’s taken four years of hard work get them to this point - where his mom is actually patting his knee and joking and not going through a long list of warnings about stranger danger and trip hazards and insisting on staying by his side all night. The meeting with his counselor his sophomore year had helped, honestly.

He uses his cane and the fence to get to Lyra, and then Lyra - well, she doesn’t quite take his arm, but they walk shoulder-to-shoulder while his cane taps along. He left the school for the blind and was mainstreamed in 8th grade, and Lyra has been his best friend and guide ever since. He’d been partnered with her in science class on the first day at his new school, and she’d asked about his sight right off the bat, but not in an annoying way? Just an incredibly honest and non-prejudicial way. She’d disarmed him, to be honest; she hadn’t been what he’d been fearing about sighted people at all.

“Galen’s already holding our seats for after the anthem,” she says of her boyfriend, and Chirrut nods in acknowledgement.

“Will you stay with me?” he whispers in her ear because- because he only needs the armor of his false bravado when he’s facing the world, not when he’s with Lyra. They’re beyond that.

“Of course,” she whispers back.

The band is tuning up, and the cheerleaders are leading a call, and sounds of exuberance surround him. It’s a bit overwhelming, but Lyra leads him quickly up the bleachers and into the booth where he’ll be singing.

\----------------------------

Baze can feel the excitement pumping through his system as the coach continues to hype up the team in the locker room. It’s Homecoming, he’s a senior, they’ve got the best record in the league. They’re definitely getting into the post-season this year, and Baze is pumped. He performs a complicated pre-game high five ritual with his quarterback, Joshie, before they start their run onto the field to thunderous applause and fanfare from the stands.

Most of the time, Baze tries to blend into the background, a feat not easily accomplished at his muscled bulk and height. He’s not great at socializing which leads to him being easily underestimated, but he rarely corrects people when they assume he’s as dumb as a brick. He mostly has Bs, though he never raises his hand or draws attention to himself in any way - but he always aces his math classes, or at least the tests. Sometimes he’s not so great at the homework bit. Like, getting it done. Home is not the easiest place to be.

He’s going to get out of here, and he’s going to community college, and he’s going to get his accounting license. Hey, maybe it’s not a grand dream, but it’s a stable income, and Baze craves stability. Respectability. Neither of which his family has much of.

Plus, being an accountant is _normal._ And if he can be a normal accountant, living his life normally, and with stability, then maybe...maybe being gay won’t be so bad a crime. Maybe he’ll get to come out sometime in his lifetime.

Not now, of course, not when he’s playing three sports because practice is a hell of a lot nicer place to be than home, and the locker room is full of _“you faggot”_ talk regularly.

But maybe someday.

He’s standing with the rest of the O line as they line up for the anthem, and his blood is buzzing, and Joshie’s tapping his helmet lightly against Baze’s before they all look to the flag and-

And the most angelic voice comes out of the stadium sound system and flies through the crisp October air. Normally Baze spends the anthem thinking strategies and moves and formulas and what-ifs and what-thens, but he spends the solid minute and a half listening to the sweetest, cleanest, most beautiful version of the song he’s ever heard. He’s actually sad when it’s over, but then, the game is starting, and they’re receiving, which means he’s on-

 

In the excitement of the homecoming win and the bonfire, he forgets all about asking after the anthem singer, and by Monday he’s glad he didn’t. It would probably be too gay.

\----------------------------

**2009: Class of 1999’s 10 year reunion:**

Chirrut isn’t paying the most attention as he tries to make a hasty exit from the ballroom. He’s got one hand on his cane and another on the wall, guiding him out, trying to find an exit. He needs some air. He needs to be out of the cloying socialness of the reunion. He shouldn’t have come tonight, it’s too soon to be- be having fun like this, his mom deserves-

_Thud._

He feels almost like he’s run into another wall, a solid, cloth-covered wall, except the wall makes a sound. “Shit, sorry,” he apologizes automatically. He holds up the cane as he feels the person-not-a-wall turn around and face him. “One of the hazards.”

“No problem,” is the quiet answer, in a low, masculine voice.

“Chirrut Îmwe,” Chirrut says, sticking out his hand to shake, hoping to get this over with quickly. He’s used to this introduction, now, after the night he’s had, and he’s tired, emotionally and physically. He just needs to get out of here. “Most people remember me as ‘the blind one.’ Well, I mean, not to my face.”

“Baze Malbus,” the voice replies. “Most people don’t remember me.”

The name isn’t familiar to Chirrut, either, but that doesn’t mean anything in a graduating class of 400 students. He’s been doing a lot of fake-knowing people tonight, because that’s the easiest way to get out of a conversation, plus he’s always been pretty good at bullshitting. “Well, now, that sounds like a story. How did Baze Malbus get through high school without anyone knowing him?”

There’s a silence, and then a cough. “I, uh. Sorry, I shrugged.” Baze sounds embarrassed.

“Most people would just cover it up and say ‘I don’t know,’” Chirrut points out, leaning into the wall, gazing up toward Baze’s voice. Tall guy. Big guy. Cute voice. Probably a bad idea to hit on him at a reunion? Nah. He didn’t have to see anyone here for another ten years, if that. And hitting on someone is just the sort of self-destructive that feels like it might be good right now.

Baze coughs again. “I was probably in your way, huh? Sorry.” He feels Baze move to the side.

Chirrut makes a split decision to lean fully against the wall, his hands tucked behind his back, looking at Baze as best he could. “I mean, I wasn’t really going anywhere important. Just kind of, uh, escaping from one of those ‘oh yeah the blind kid’ moments.”

“That’s, um, really fucking stupid. Someone saying that to you, I mean,” Baze rushes out, and Chirrut nods in acknowledgement.

“That’s one of the other hazards,” he replies nonchalantly. “Not tiring to deal with at all or anything.” He hears a little intake of breath and a small laugh from the other man at his sarcasm, and he grins.

There’s another silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward, at least not to Chirrut. Baze is back to sounding embarrassed, though, when he says, “I should let you go…”

Chirrut shrugs. “Or you could escape with me. You smoke?”

“No. But I don’t mind it.”

God, he can practically _hear_ the tightness of anxiety in Baze’s voice. “I don’t either. Bad for the vocal chords, but I thought it might make a good excuse. Oh well. We can pretend.”

He holds out his arm, and is pleasantly surprised when Baze takes it. He doesn’t mind escaping with someone if it’s someone like Baze, who at least doesn’t _seem_ like a complete ableist asshole.

“Where do you want to go?” Baze asks quietly.

“Lyra told me there’s some stairs out back?”

“Lyra Woods?”

“Lyra Erso, now, but yeah. Née Woods. You know her?”

“Right, Erso. She’s my cousin, actually. Second cousin, twice removed, or something. Our grandmas were sisters.”

Chirrut lets out a short laugh. “Small world. Nice to meet you, kin of Lyra,” he says, holding out his hand again to shake with Baze. “She’s my best friend. Has been since 8th grade. She’s the one that convinced me to come here tonight.”

“We see each other like once a year, at the family reunion, and there’s always like a hundred people there, so I wouldn’t blame her for not bringing me up. And my mom and I didn’t go most of the time anyway.”

“Hmm. Forgotten by an entire class of high schoolers, forgotten by your cousin. I’m beginning to suspect you’re actually just wedding-crashing this reunion, Baze.”

It surprises a laugh out of Baze, which makes Chirrut grin. “No, I promise I was there.”

“Can anyone actually _verify_ that, though? Or do you just trawl reunions for the lonely, blind types. Are you kidnapping me?”

“No! I swear. No. I’m- Joshie. Joshie Nemmen can vouch for me.”

Chirrut pauses. _“Star quarterback_ Joshie Nemmen?”

“Well yeah. I was on the football team.”

“Oh, so you were a _jock.”_

He feels Baze shrug. “Not really. I mean, I guess. I played three sports: football, wrestling, baseball. I think we’re at the stairs.”

Chirrut drops the subject, and Baze’s arm. “Describe them for me?”

Baze makes a kind of anguished little sound, like he hadn’t been expecting that, but then he clears his throat. “Um. It’s kind of nice out here, actually. There’s, um. Like, flower boxes going up the side of the stairs? Full of, uh, flowers, although that’s probably obvious.”

“I can smell them,” Chirrut says softly, using his cane to find the edge of the stairs and sitting down. He pats the warm cement beside him - the sun must already be down by now, but it had been hot today. “Sit a bit. You’re doing a good job. Tell me more.”

Baze sits down beside him. “I was kind of expecting this to be like, a dump, but it’s really nice here. You can see the water- or, well.”

Chirrut sighs. “I’m used to it, it’s okay.”

“The water is visible from here,” Baze tries again, his voice a little stronger, like he’s promising to do better on Chirrut’s behalf. “It was a pretty spectacular sunset tonight, and it’s still kind of lingering? Like you can just make out some pinks and purples, still.”

“You’re pretty good at this,” Chirrut murmurs, nudging Baze with his shoulder. “What else?”

Baze hums for a second, enough for Chirrut to tell he’s tone-deaf. It’s- endearing, Chirrut decides. “There’s a few stars out. Not a whole lot, of course, with the light pollution. But enough. No moon tonight, so we get a few stars.”

“I kind of doubt this, but have you ever felt a braille star chart?” At Baze’s negative, Chirrut pulls out both hands to help him try and describe them. “I’ve never- I’ve been blind my entire life, so I’ve never seen the stars. But the way people describe them, the way they _feel_ on the star charts.” He sighs. “They’re beautiful.”

“They are,” Baze says softly. “I don’t look up at them often enough, but they are.”

Chirrut leans back and tips his head up, like he can see them, feels Baze do the same beside him. “What do you do, Baze?”

“I’m an accountant,” he replies, sounding a little embarrassed - or is it shy? “You?”

“A choir teacher.”

“You sing?”

“I do. And play the piano. And a bit of guitar.”

Baze whistles. “Damn. I can’t.”

“Tone-deaf?”

“To everyone’s dismay.”

Chirrut reaches out to pat Baze’s knee. “It’s alright. I could never be an accountant. Numbers just go all wibbly in my head.”

“Numbers are easy.”

“Not to me they aren’t. Seriously. The world needs accountants.”

“And music.”

“And music.”

“How do you do it? Not the music part. The teaching.”

Chirrut sighs. “It’s not easy, I’ll admit. I have to have a parapro - like a teacher’s aide - in the class with me at all times to ‘be my eyes’.” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “I mean it’s a safety issue, obviously. A kid could sneak out under my nose, or whatever. The district gets a kickback from the government for accommodating me, though, to pay for the parapro. And there’s the fact that the upper choir has won regionals twice since I started there.”

“Good for you, and them.”

“I love it. I love them. I could do something else in music, probably. Or get an office job. But I’d miss the hell out of the kids.” He nudges Baze’s knee with his. “The first few years were rough, though. Trying to prove myself, prove my cost, prove my worth. On top of teaching just being rough in general.”

“School was- it was just kind of a thing I got through, I guess. I can’t really imagine going back. Not like tonight, I mean. But like, as a teacher.” Chirrut can feel the motion of Baze shaking his head near his. “I got through by keeping my head down and playing sports, and then I never had to look back.” He sounds bitter.

“You’re back tonight,” Chirrut points out softly.

“And I was regretting that up until about 20 minutes ago,” Baze answers, just as softly.

Chirrut’s cheeks heating have nothing to do with the continued warmth of the cement on his back. “I’m glad you didn’t leave early, then.”

There’s a silence then, a lull in which Chirrut registers the start of the evening crickets, and the sound of cars on the highway, and Baze’s breath as he blows it out.

“Can you say something?” Baze asks, and it’s obvious he needs to be distracted. “Anything. Talk about anything.”

And talking, well. Talking has never been one of Chirrut’s problems. He launches into a funny story about one of his students, then another, and another. He’s accumulated quite a few over the course of five years. He beams inside when Baze chuckles along with him, thoroughly distracted. He’s glad he could do that for the man. He also realizes he hasn’t thought about Mom for awhile, and feels an immediate stab of guilt.

Baze is quiet, but not silent, offering little quips and comments that belay a sharp intelligence underneath that shy demeanor. Chirrut can’t help but play off it, working toward the perfect timing for a Baze quip and then laughing uproariously when it happens.

There’s a moment of silence, and Baze nudges him. “You mentioned Lyra convinced you to come. How come you didn’t want to?”

Chirrut’s breath catches, and he bites his lip. It’s still hard, this next sentence. Even the thought of it flowing in and around his brain is hard, let alone voicing it. “My mom died a few weeks ago. Three. Three weeks ago, Monday. A stroke. She was only fifty-three. I haven’t been- well. I haven’t felt like partying. We kind of had a complicated relationship, but we were really close. Lyra said it would be good for me to come out, and I let her convince me.”  He looks in the direction of Baze. “It has been. Good for me, I mean,” he admits softly. “Feel a little bad about ditching Lyra, though.”

“She and Galen looked like they wanted to check out anyway, when we left.”

“Hopefully she’s not worried about me.” Except he doesn’t pull out his phone to check for texts. He finds himself not wanting to let this time with Baze end. “Did you go to prom?” he asks randomly.

By his side, he feels Baze stiffen. “Yeah, with Ari Guerrero?”

“Oh, she might have been in choir, I think. I slightly remember that name.”

“She was. I remember, she had a really pretty singing voice. Did you go?”

Chirrut shook his head. “No date. Didn’t want to be Lyra and Galen’s third wheel, again.”

“You didn’t miss much. I mean, everyone looked nice, and stuff, but mostly I remember a lot of awkwardness.”

“I’ve still never slow danced with anyone.”

“Wait, really?” Baze’s surprise makes Chirrut laugh.

“Really.”

“Well, again, you’re not missing much. Mostly it was like… where do I put my hands? I don’t want to touch anything I’m not supposed to touch, you know?”

Chirrut laughs. “Yeah, that would probably freak me out, too. I’ve done plenty of club dancing, and no one cares where your hands go, there. Or where hands go on you. Everyone is just, like, one body.”

“That doesn’t actually sound any better.” Baze does sound distinctly uncomfortable. Chirrut wonders what he’d think if he told him that he did all that dancing at the gay club.

Chirrut shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s just about the only time I like people touching me unannounced.”

“That’s understandable,” Baze murmurs.

A cool breeze, smelling strongly of salt and fish, coming up off the Sound, makes Chirrut shiver a little. He taps his watch, and a little computerized voice tells him it’s almost midnight.

“Holy shit,” Baze says with some surprise. “I thought it was like… nine.”

The last four hours have passed by in a handful of minutes, it seems like, and Chirrut turns his head away from the sky to smile at Baze. “Do you turn back into a pumpkin at midnight? I know a good late night place around the corner from here. Russian dumplings. Open until 3am.”

There’s a brief silence, in which all Chirrut wants to do is reach out and explore Baze’s face, see if he’s smiling, and then Baze says, “I could eat some dumplings.”

\----------------------------

Baze is good at compartmentalizing and pushing through something as a defense/coping mechanism. He’s less good at compartmentalizing something that...makes him feel _good._ And that’s how he ends up Googling “how to be better at describing things to blind people” when technically he should be running the Johnson numbers again, at about 10am on the Monday morning after the reunion. That search quickly leads him to more, and suddenly he realizes he has a lot to learn. Including using better language than ‘blind people.’

He and Chirrut had gotten their dumplings, and talked for an hour, then gotten another round, laughing, and talked until closing time. He’d watched Chirrut’s taxi zip away, and then belatedly, stupidly realized he hadn’t exchanged phone numbers or anything with Chirrut.

He’d also realized quickly that he had Lyra, as a backup plan, if he can get through the pleasantries involved in that. She’d probably want him to come by, see Jyn. Be social.

 _Or…_ the internet.

Turns out there aren’t too many Chirrut Îmwes that are the choir directors of schools that win regionals two years in a row, who also happen to be blind. There are several articles in the Tacoma News Tribune about him, actually, and one with a picture that confirms it’s the same Chirrut.

From there, it’s all too easy to find his school’s website, and linger over the picture of him in the staff directory. He’s dressed in a suit, his hair a little longer back whenever this picture was taken, and kind of spiking up off his head.

It’s a good look. Really good.

That’s as far as his brain lets him go before screaming at him to get back to work.

At lunch, he brings food to eat at his desk and clicks over to the tab with the school’s website in it again. There’s Chirrut, smiling in between a Ms. Hailey Dever and a Mr. Phillip Monson.

He’s wearing a bow tie with little music notes on it.

Baze has to click away.

His heart is thudding.

He clicks back.

There’s a little envelope under the picture, and Baze clicks on it. It opens up an email automatically addressed to Chirrut, and Baze’s fingers hover over the keys for a second. He gleaned from their talk, from Chirrut’s watch, from the voice memo Chirrut left on his phone at one point, that Chirrut probably has something that reads his emails out to him in his office.

Which means - if he sends Chirrut an email, he’d have to make it sound businesslike. What if there are kids in the room when he reads it? Or the principal doing an observation or something. That would be really fucking embarrassing. Are they even back in school yet? Chirrut mentioned something about going in this week, but it seems early.

So he could just send an easy email, like, “Hey. It’s Baze.” His work sign off would have his work number, which at least would be a step in the right direction.

But Baze doesn’t want to do that, even. Doesn’t want something that could be for everyone’s ears.

So he opens a new tab, and Googles “how to translate into braille.”  

By the end of lunch, he’s located an embossing printer at one of the local library branches. He has to pay a fee per sheet, but it’s worth it.

Now he just has to actually figure out what he wants to say.

Chirrut talked _so much_ on Saturday night, and it was amazing. Baze was never bored, never wished he could talk more.

But he wants to know Chirrut a lot better. Wants Chirrut to know him.

Somehow the blinking cursor on the screen isn’t daunting, when a silence across the table, an expectation of conversation, is.

And Baze, who was always better at numbers than words, at school, finds himself pouring his ideas, his memories, his _life_ out onto the page.

\----------------------------

“Hey, Chirrut! Nice to see you back again. Let me grab your keys. How was your summer?” The bright voice of the main secretary, Monica, fills the office.

Chirrut leans on the counter, chin in his hand. He always heads back to school early, to sort through music and get his bearings. “Really great, actually.”

“You, Îmwe, have perfect timing,” she says, and Chirrut hears the clink of keys in front of him, along with a piece of paper. “This just came in for you in yesterday’s mail. Looks important, maybe? I was going to email you about it, and I forgot, but it’s definitely not a catalog or anything. Want me to open it?”

“Sure,” Chirrut replies, taking his keys and beginning to play with them in his hands to hear the light tinkle of them.

There’s a ripping, and the slide of paper over paper, and then Monica’s soft inhale of surprise. “It’s in braille, actually, so here you go!”

Chirrut accepts the paper, curious. He rarely gets actual correspondence in braille, to be honest. He finds the top of the page and scans the first few words with his fingers.

_Dear Chirrut,_

_I wanted to kick myself when I realized I didn’t give you my number._

Chirrut pauses, then searches for the end of the letter, only to realize it’s _four pages_ long. And some of that is the braille, sure, but that means that-

His fingers find the signature line.

_Sincerely,_

_Baze Malbus._

That means that Baze still wrote him a significantly long piece. His heart stutters a little.

“Chirrut?” Monica asks curiously.

“Letter from an old friend,” Chirrut quickly excuses, and nods at Monica. “Thanks. I’ll probably be back in the music closet if anyone needs me, okay?”

“Okay, just call if you need some rearranging done.”

Chirrut, of course, doesn’t go to the music closet right away, but instead unlocks his office door and sinks into his chair. Almost greedily, he finds the beginning of the letter again, and starts to read.

It’s everything.

Maybe not _everything,_ Chirrut amends. But it’s a lot. Baze writes about how sorry he is for Chirrut’s loss. And now he tells Chirrut more bluntly about his own childhood, a neglectful mother, and a string of sometimes abusive boyfriends. About how he’d been in a bad mood at the reunion because he’d had to have dinner with his mom and her current boyfriend. She’d dropped a large hint and he’d ended up giving her a $500 ‘loan’ that he assumed he’d never see again. Pretty normal Malbus family dinner, actually, Baze had joked, and Chirrut can almost hear the bitterness in his words. _‘No yelling this time, so maybe that’s the key. I pay them, no yelling.’_

Chirrut clenches a fist in his lap, then releases it and keeps reading.

If you’d asked Chirrut twenty minutes ago what beautiful is, he would have said it’s the moment when his choir finally comes together on a song. When they perform it perfectly, following his every movement. There’s nothing as electrifying as eighty voices performing as one.

That’s still beautiful, but so is this, so is Baze, on this paper, baring himself to Chirrut as surely as if he’d let Chirrut run his hands over his face.

Towards the end of the letter, Chirrut pauses, backs up, and rereads, then lets a huge grin roll over his face.  

_So I figure I have nothing to lose. We’re not friends, yet, so if you never reply, I haven’t lost anything. But here’s the thing: I’m gay. If that’s a deal breaker for you, then I’m sorry, for both of us, but mostly for you. If it’s not, then I’d like to hang out. I promise not to hit on you._

“Christ, Baze, what kind of friends do you _have?”_ he mutters aloud, then shakes his head. It’s all too easy to imagine shy, quiet Baze coming out to someone only for them to throw it in his face.

The letter ends with his signature and contact information, and Chirrut immediately goes back to page one and reads the whole thing all over again. At _I promise not to hit on you,_ he grins. “I wonder if I can get you to break that promise, Bazey.”

He pulls over the special notepad with raised lines - handwriting lessons had continued even when he’d left the school for the blind. He’s been told his handwriting is nothing fancy, but it’s legible, and it works. He has to go slowly, though, to make sure he doesn’t shift or double back, and by the time he’s written out a paragraph, he’s tired of it.

He chews his lip. It’s nothing like Baze’s letter, but Chirrut has never been much of a writer.

He walks back to the office, and carefully translates the braille street address Baze gave him - along with a phone number and email address - onto an envelope with Monica’s assistance. He puts his own street address in the return area.

Sorting through dusty boxes of music has never gone by easier, after that.

\----------------------------

Baze isn’t sure what he’s expecting from the letter, but for some reason, when he collects his mail from his little numbered box in the lobby of his apartment building and there’s a plain white envelope with “C. Îmwe” in the return address, he’s floored enough that he drops the whole pile.

 _What was he thinking?_ There’s _no possible way_ he can open this letter. He picks up the stack with shaking hands and numbly begins the climb up to the third story.

In his apartment, he tosses everything except the response from Chirrut onto the side table and heads immediately for the kitchen, where he grabs a beer from the fridge. Pops the lid off, rests the cool bottle against his forehead for a second to steady himself, takes a sip, sets it down.

Paces once around his apartment. Picks up pieces of laundry and trash and just random shit that has accumulated. Heads back to the kitchen, takes another sip.

Turns away from the letter and pulls out a microwave dinner, pops it in. Watches it spin slowly around, getting irradiated, takes another sip.

Burns himself taking the plastic wrap off. Curses and holds his hand under cool water. Glares out the kitchen window at the great view he has of the brick apartment building wall next door. Shakes his head, dries his hand, takes a sip, and opens the letter.

There’s a short note inside, with blocky, bold writing. Different handwriting from the envelope, Baze notes. This is much more... _Chirrut._ He feels the raised lines of the paper, imagines Chirrut writing it.

_Baze:_

_Fuck everyone you’ve ever met who says that’s a deal breaker. Wanna get drinks sometime?_

_Chirrut_

_PS: That was the best thing I’ve ever read. Tell me more?_

Baze can feel his blush up to the roots of his hair, and his heart is knocking against his ribs. He reads the note five more times to make sure it’s not a secret rejection, then uses a magnet to stick in on his fridge. _It’s not a rejection._

_It’s not a rejection!_

Baze grabs his mostly cool dinner and a pad of note paper and begins writing again.

\----------------------------

 _Right now,_ Chirrut thinks, _Baze is battling Seattle traffic just so he can pick me up here, just so we can go to my favorite bar._

Chirrut has never had a- a _suitor_ before, but that’s almost what Baze has become.

He’s sent three more letters, each one longer than the last, and Chirrut pours over them again and again, mostly at night, before he falls asleep.

Chirrut has written back, but it’s unsatisfying, and they’ve fallen into a routine of Chirrut calling Baze in the evening, so he can chat back, so he can really say what he wants because writing it out is annoying, and emailing is… with emails, Chirrut doesn’t get to hear Baze’s soft little laugh over the crackle of the phone.

Chirrut _lives_ for Baze’s soft little laugh.

Chirrut lives for a lot of Baze’s little things, it seems. He’s dated before, but not extensively, and he’s never been this into a person from the get go. He wants to read Baze’s letters over and over just to hear him talk about his childhood and his mom, how he broke away to go to school, how he knows accounting is weird and boring but he loves it. And Chirrut and Baze aren't even dating.

He knows a lot about Chirrut, now, too. Knows about how isolated he felt at the school for the blind, knows how he struggled with his parents to give him some type of independence, and how hard he still has to work at it, at maintaining that independence.

And he knows Chirrut is bi.

They’ve talked about their experiences with that; Baze’s first boyfriend, met in community college, who helped him break out of the chains of the closet. Chirrut’s first kiss being a guy, back in high school, in the back of the bus on a choir trip. Realizing he also liked girls and thinking the gay thing had been a phase. Embracing his bisexuality in his time at the University of Washington.

What they haven’t really talking about is what it means - that they’re available to one another, if they’re interested. Chirrut is very, very interested. He’s interested in pressing his lips over the face Baze has described to him, and peeling the clothes off of that very solid body he’d felt at the reunion, sure, but his _heart_ is interested, too.

And now, two months after the reunion, Baze is driving through rush hour traffic to get to him, and they’re going to have dinner and drinks, and it’s going to be very, very hard for Chirrut not to just leap into Baze’s arms the minute he shows up.

He needs to, for the sake of Baze, for the sake of what this could be, he needs to take this slowly.

He’s pretty sure he’s paced a line in his flooring. He hears the clomp of feet outside his door and freezes, and then there’s the doorbell, and it still makes Chirrut’s heart jolt even though he was expecting it.

He swings open the door. “Hello?” His voice is a little wavery, and he thinks it’s nerves more than the fact that it might not actually be Baze, but some other random person.

“Hi,” Baze says, and Chirrut’s goddamned _heart_ lights up inside him.

“Hi,” Chirrut repeats, leaning against the doorway. Then he jolts upright, and reaches for his cane. “Let’s get going. Do you want to walk?”

“It’s a nice night. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“I definitely don’t mind walking,” Chirrut jokes. “My main mode of transportation, after all.” He turns to lock his apartment up, then leads Baze back down the path using his cane. Baze’s arm brushes against his as they walk, and Chirrut wants to reach out and hold his hand, but he resists.

“How was traffic?” Chirrut manages, though he wants to talk about so much more.

“Shit. Caught the express lane, though. How were the kids today?”

“Shit,” Chirrut says with a laugh, is pleased to hear Baze join in. “It was homecoming, so they’re all hyped up, plus we had a pep assembly so it was a weird schedule, and yeah. Not a lot gets done on Homecoming Friday.”

“I remember,” Baze murmurs, sounding amused.

Chirrut nudges him with his shoulder. “Was probably a little different if you were on the football team. A little more special, maybe.”

“I don’t really have any other experience to compare it to, but it was fun, being a part of the team. Like a different family.”

Chirrut likes the happy nostalgia in Baze’s voice, so he doesn’t say _Different family, still wouldn’t accept you for who you are, though._ He can’t change Baze’s past. Only support him now. “Choir could be like that. The family thing, I mean. You bond on long bus trips.”

“I don’t distinctly remember a choir homecoming, though,” Baze says, laughing but also sounding embarrassed.

“Yeah, well. We went to state our senior year but we didn’t win like you football guys did, so a little less fanfare for us.”

“Sorry.”

“Eh. Sports and the arts have been in contention for attention since the day both of them were invented, I’m pretty sure.” Chirrut pauses. “This should be it? Maz’s?”

“Maz’s,” Baze confirms, a little wonder in his voice. It could either be at the impressive homey chaos of Maz’s, or at Chirrut’s ability to find it.

“Let’s get a booth.”

They settle in, Chirrut recommending one of the micro-brews  - an IPA - that Maz herself brews on site for Baze before ordering a lager for himself. They decide to split a pizza when they both realize they come down on the same side of the pineapple on pizza debate: pile it on. Chirrut’s pretty sure he’s found his soul mate.

The talk is easy, easier for Baze than it was the night of the reunion, like the alcohol has loosened him, but also like they got the hard stuff out of the way over the last two months, and now it’s like- it’s like they just know each other. They have inside jokes now. Chirrut knows just what to say to get Baze to laugh and amazingly, Baze can do the same in his sweet, quiet way. And sure, Chirrut still carries the bulk of the conversation, but it’s not all him, not anymore.

“Cheery! Are you going to sing for us tonight?” Maz scoots in beside Chirrut on his side of the booth, and they exchange cheek kisses.

“You can’t afford my price, Maz,” he quips, and Baze laughs.

“Your price is another pint of lager, if I remember correctly.” Maz snaps her fingers, and Chirrut has no doubt another pint is on the way. “Come on, you have the voice of an angel, it always makes customers thirsty, eh?”

Across from them, Baze bursts out in laughter, and now Chirrut can only imagine the face Maz is making. Probably something with raised eyebrows.

There’s the sound of another glass being clunked onto the table and slid in front of him. He can feel both Baze and Maz’s gaze. “All right, I’ll sing.”

Maz claps a hand on his back as she stands. “Good man, good man. Just you wait, Chirrut’s friend, he has the voice of an angel, an angel!”

Chirrut’s heart thuds. He’s literally performed in front of thousands of people, but none of them were … the one. Were his Baze. He takes a gulp of lager.

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Chirrut.” Baze’s voice is soft, and closer, like he’s leaning over the booth table.

“No, I can do it. I do it all the time, despite Maz making a big production out of it. I’ll do a few karaoke songs, get the night started, and she’s right. She’ll sell more, I’ll get my free beer, and everyone in here gets to have a good time.” He smiles brightly at Baze. “Besides, I’m very good.”

“I don’t doubt it. You just looked really anxious,” Baze murmurs, still serious.

And _oh._ _Oh my._ _Be still my beating heart._

Chirrut runs his fingers over the condensation on the pint glass and considers how honest he wants to be. And then he looks up, and across at Baze, the best he can. Knows he won’t meet his eyes exactly but hopes for his face, at least. “I am, a little. Because you’re here. And you’ve never heard me sing. And I find myself caring, quite a lot, what you think of me.”

Well. Maybe the alcohol has loosened his tongue a little, too.

 _“Chirrut,”_ Baze whispers with feeling, and it’s the single best way Chirrut has ever heard his name said. His heart thumps hard in his chest.

“Please put your hands together for Chirrut Îmwe!” Maz says into the mic, and then Chirrut’s sliding out of the booth, hand trembling a little as he uses his cane to make his way through the bar patrons.

Maz hands him the mic and turns him towards the small stage. “The usual?”

Chirrut’s about to say yes, but then he stops and whispers something in Maz’s ear.

He can feel the familiar warmth of the stage lights. He’s used to this position, he was meant to be here.

The opening piano starts, and Chirrut winks at the audience. “You know, if Maz wasn’t so cheap, I could play this for you, but here we are.” The audience chuckles as Maz blows him a raspberry.

 _“It’s undeniable, that we should be together.”_ As the first line lands, there’s a loud cheer through the audience - enough 90’s children to recognize Brian McKnight’s Back at One, then. Chirrut smiles and gives it his everything.

And he’s not one to brag (he’s totally one to brag), but his everything is pretty kickass. By the time he reaches the chorus, he has everyone eating out of his hand, and when he changes the lyric from _“girl”_ to _“boy, you know it’s plain to see, that you’re the only one for me,”_ he gets are large round of applause. He looks back in the direction of their booth, hopes Baze is there, hopes Baze gets it.

By the time he’s done and handing the mic back off to Maz, using her help to get off the stage, there’s a group of women clamoring to continue with a ‘90s night theme. He grins, gives some suggestions, and finally makes his way back to the booth. A hand catches his arm lightly before he sits down, and he automatically reacts to deflect it before he recognizes Baze’s cologne. “Hey,” he says, breathless with nerves and excitement.

“You’re them.” There’s something weird about Baze’s voice, and Chirrut’s brow furrows.

“What?”

“You’re The Angel.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, Chirrut frowns. “I’ll repeat, wha-”

“At the homecoming game, my senior year, I heard the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard before sing the anthem. But I never tried to figure out who it was because I figured that was too gay.”

Chirrut takes a deep breath. “That was me. I sang the national anthem at our senior homecoming game.”

“I know, I recognize- recognize your voice.”

“From _ten years_ ago?” He can’t keep the astonishment out of his voice.

“Yes,” Baze replies, and he’s absolutely frank.

There’s a touch at his shoulder, as someone behind them takes the stage and the opening bars of _My Heart Will Go On_ start to play. Chirrut takes a breath when he feels Baze start to lean down. His heart is pounding in his chest.

“Can I-” Baze starts, and his face must be moments away from Chirrut’s.

Chirrut reaches out and puts a hand on Baze’s chest, feeling it again for the first time since the reunion, and that was just an accident. Baze is solid and warmth beneath him, and Chirrut feels a blush rise on his cheeks. “Wait-” And Baze stiffens. Cursing under his breath, Chirrut feels down his arm to grab his hand and lead them out of the bar. “We’ll be right back, Maz, I’m not running out on the tab,” he calls over his shoulder.

And then they’re out in the coolish October air. There’s a crispness to it, and it energizes Chirrut. He leans against the bar wall and pulls Baze close. He walks his fingers up Baze’s arm, and wraps his arm around Baze’s neck, and leans up onto the balls of his feet to get close again. “I wasn’t going to allow our first kiss to take place when Miss I-Think-I-Can-Sing-Like-Celine was droning,” he whispers, and he feels a puff of breath as Baze laughs.

“Good, strategic planning,” Baze whispers back.

And then they kiss, and it is perfect. He can feel the roughness of Baze’s beard on his face, an interesting texture to be sure, and one Chirrut wants to explore more. Baze’s lips are soft under his, and they open easily at Chirrut’s exploration. Chirrut sighs, leaning back against the wall, or maybe Baze pushes him there so he can get a better angle, Chirrut can’t actually be sure of the sequence of events. All he really cares about his Baze’s lips on his, Baze’s hand at the small of his back lifting him up, slightly.

\----------------------------

Baze can’t quite interpret all the emotions crashing through him, as Chirrut leans into his embrace and moans, just a little, against his lips. He groans in response, and presses Chirrut more fully against the wall, wanting to feel all of him everywhere. He slides his hand behind Chirrut’s head, fingers playing over the short fade of his hair, and takes the kiss deeper. Everything - every taste, every touch, every sound, is like fire in his blood.

When they break apart, Chirrut’s eyes are still closed, his lips still parted, fuller now from the kiss, and there’s a deep blush high on his cheeks. He looks sweet, and vulnerable, and Baze is glad he’s shielding him with his body from anyone else’s view. This is just for him. This is what Chirrut looks like when _he_ kisses him.

He wonders what he looks like. His face feels hot, and his heart is slamming a chaotic beat, and he’s- he’s smiling. He’s smiling when Chirrut’s fingers trace over his face for the first time, eyes still closed. Chirrut sighs with pleasure when he reaches Baze’s lips and finds the smile.

“I like your face,” Chirrut whispers.

“I like yours, too,” Baze whispers back, and Chirrut laughs, and pulls him down for another kiss.

“We should go back inside,” Chirrut mumbles a few minutes later. “Or Maz will really think we skipped out on the tab.”

“Okay,” he says, and he foresees himself saying ‘okay’ to Chirrut many, many more times in the future.

Chirrut pushes away from the wall, white cane out to guide, then turns and holds out his hand. Smiling, Baze takes it, and lets Chirrut lead them back inside.

It’s still a ‘90s love fest when they get back in; now someone is singing Selena, Chirrut tells him as he pulls him back to their booth. This time, when Baze sits, Chirrut scoots in beside him, keeping their hands linked. They switch to water; Baze has to drive, and Chirrut hates hangovers. At one point, Maz walks by and gives Baze a knowing wink when she sees his arm wrapped around Chirrut as they quietly talk.

“Can I get out for a sec?” Baze whispers in his ear, then can’t resist a little kiss there, above Chirrut’s ear, on his hair. Chirrut smiles at him as he scoots out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”

He finds Maz, and slips in his request, and Maz gives him a grin and a _‘I’ll put it on right away.’_

Back at their booth, he clears his throat so Chirrut knows he’s there. As Chirrut looks up at him, Boyz II Men start to croon. “May I have this dance, Chirrut?”

Chirrut’s face goes all soft, and Baze wants nothing more out of life than to keep putting that look on his face. He slides his hand into Baze’s, and lets Baze pull him up and into his arms.

It takes a little negotiating, because they both want to lead, and because Chirrut doesn’t quite trust him yet, which Baze is okay with. He can sense that they’ll get there.

Unlike his prom date, there’s absolutely no wrong spot with Chirrut. Every movement, every touch seems perfect, just like the kiss they’d shared outside. They wrap their arms around each other and sway to the music. Other couples join in, like it’s prom all over again. He kisses Chirrut’s temple, and rests his cheek against Chirrut’s.

He’s stabbed by regret, that he could have had this ten years ago if they’d met, if- if the world had been a different place. This could be familiar, now, instead of new. They could be heading home together after this, instead of alone. The coulda-woulda-shouldas hit him hard, and he tightens his arms around Chirrut.

After the dance, Chirrut yawns, and Baze suggests they walk back to his apartment. He still has the drive, after all. He’s dreading it, not because of traffic, which will be light by now, but because he feels the distance between them palpably.

At Chirrut’s door, Chirrut slides his key in to unlock it, then turns to face Baze again. “I’d like to keep seeing you,” he says. “I know it’s hard, the distance-”

Baze brings his hand up to Chirrut’s arm first, then slides it up over his shoulder, and up to his cheek. He’d already learned that Chirrut preferred physical contact to be announced, and not a surprise. Chirrut turns his head to kiss the palm of Baze’s hand, then back in his direction. “It’s not hard,” Baze murmurs. “And it’s not that long a distance. We can figure it out.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, we’ve done pretty well up to this point.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to fuck this up,” Chirrut says quickly, some of that anxiety from before crossing over his face again.

Chirrut’s quick honesty is something that’s constantly disarming for Baze. He wants to cherish and nurture it, and so, he bares his own soul: “I don’t want to fuck it up either.”

“So that’s decided then, we just both won’t fuck it up, got it,” Chirrut jokes, and Baze has to laugh, and lean in to kiss him again.

“Got it,” Baze confirms. “Let me know if I seem like I’m about to, okay?”

“Same goes.” Chirrut hold out a hand, then leaves just his pinky wagging between them. “Pinky swear.”

With a little laugh, Baze takes Chirrut’s pinky in his and shakes it. “Pinky swear.”

“It is done,” Chirrut says in a mock-serious voice.

“So it is.”

Chirrut pulls him in for another kiss, then pushes him away gently. “You should get home before you fall asleep on the drive.”

Baze knows that’s logical, but he’s not feeling very logical at the moment. “I’ll text you when I get home,” he says, and Chirrut _beams_ at him and he doesn’t know how _not_ to feel all floaty and light when that happens.

He lifts Chirrut’s hand for one last kiss, then waits to make sure everything is fine with Chirrut’s key, then finally starts to walk away.

\----------------------------

Five days later, Chirrut grins as he opens the envelope. It’s just the right shape and size for a letter from Baze, and he’s happy to find he’s not wrong as he starts scanning the first few lines with his fingers.

He settles himself better into his couch and begins reading. Then pauses, blushes, and rereads.

_Chirrut:_

_I guess these are love letters now._

Chirrut laughs, and then is caught surprised by a tear welling up in his eye. He flicks it away and fumbles for his phone. Voice commands it to dial Baze.

“Hello?”

“How dare you,” Chirrut says, and oh god, his voice is teary, too.

There’s a silence, and then Baze’s understandably extremely worried voice says, “What did I fuck up?”

“No,” Chirrut rushes out. “No. These are happy tears, I promise.”

“How dare I…?”

“How dare you write it in a letter when I can’t tackle you and smother you in kisses.”

Baze’s breath catches, and then he laughs nervously. “You got my letter, huh?”

“I got your letter. Your love letter.”

Silence again.

“And?”

“And?” Chirrut repeats back, dumbly, his brain still half fried from Baze’s admission.

“And, um. You said happy tears, so it’s okay?”

“Yes! Yes, it’s okay! Oh god, sorry, I’m fucking this all up.” He takes a deep breath to center himself. “I love you, too.”

Baze gives a surprised little laugh, and when he talks, his voice sounds a little watery, too. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Chirrut repeats.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I think my boyfriend is coming over,” Chirrut jokes.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Don’t speed, be safe,” Chirrut says automatically. “I’ll be here.” Then once more, because he has to: “I love you.”

“I love you,” Baze repeats automatically, and Chirrut can tell from the background noise that he’s grabbed his keys. “I’ll be right there.”

\-----------

_Chirrut:_

_I guess these are love letters now. Maybe they were the whole time. I don’t know how to say it properly. I feel like I should be all flowery, because it’s a letter. Like something from England, or something. But I’m not, so here goes: I love you. I love you, and I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it up, just like you said on Friday night, but also, if it weren’t so scary, I don’t think it’s the real thing, if that makes sense? I love you. I love you. I would repeat it forever, but embosser costs money to use. I love you._

_Baze_

\-----------------

Chirrut’s waiting by his door when the doorbell rings and he swings it open. “Baze?”

“Yeah,” Baze’s voice confirms, and then Chirrut is rushing into his arms, pulling him into a tight hug.

They walk backwards together into Chirrut’s apartment and shut the door. “You have work tomorrow,” Chirrut says more as a statement than a question.

“Yeah, and it’s a school night.”

“Yeah.”

At the same time: “I don’t care.”

They burst into laughter, and drag each other into a kiss, and another, and all Chirrut wants to do is drag Baze to the floor. Instead, he breaks away, and tugs on Baze’s arm. “Want to take this to my bedroom?”

“Okay,” Baze says, breathless.

Chirrut grins and uses a hand on the wall to guide them back. Inside, he turns and fingers over the zipper of Baze’s hoodie. “Can I?”

“Absolutely.”

He zips it down and pushes it over Baze’s shoulders - oh God, those shoulders. Baze helps him pull it off, and then pulls his button up - he basically came from work - out of his pants. Chirrut works at the buttons, then pushes that off too, and suddenly he has access to acres of glorious, warm Baze skin. “Mmph.” He makes the sound without thinking, and Baze rumbles with that small little laugh he does.

And that’s when Chirrut decides he doesn’t just live for the sound of it, but the feel of it.

He leans in and presses a kiss over Baze’s heart.

“Chirrut,” Baze murmurs, and Chirrut tips his head up to let Baze kiss him again.

They catch Chirrut up to Baze, pushing his after-work t-shirt over his head, and then they pull each other down into bed. He’s cuddled up into Baze’s arms, their lips drifting lazily together and apart.

Baze rests his forehead against Chirrut’s. “I spent the last three lunch hours looking for jobs closer to you. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“You _love_ your job in Everett.”

“You didn’t tell me I’m crazy.”

“I-” Chirrut threads his fingers into Baze’s long curls. And smiles, a little sheepishly. “I can’t.” Lets it fall from his face. “But I don’t want- I don’t want you to be so close to your abus- your mom.”

“No, not here. But closer to you.”

Chirrut takes a deep breath, and kisses Baze again. “I can’t lie- I want that. God, I really, really want that.”

He circles his arms around Baze and pulls him close, kissing down his cheek and across his neck. He feels Baze’s pulse quicken. “But we don’t need to rush.”

Baze’s hand sweeps over his back. “We lost ten years to time.”

“We have a lot more than that ahead of us.”

“You don’t regret it? That we didn’t meet in high school?”

Chirrut leans back a little and traces his fingers up Baze’s cheek. He lines his eyes up as best he can. “I don’t. We were different people. Would high school you have pressed me to the side of a building and kissed me in public?”

“Hell, no.” Baze softens his answer with a press of lips to Chirrut’s forehead. “I understand.” He sighs, and it breezes through Chirrut’s hair. “We’ve got time,” he concedes.

“We do.” Chirrut presses Baze back, a hand on his chest. “And since we do, I want to take my very sweet time learning your body. If you want.” He smiles wryly. “Or we could be responsible adults and go to sleep, since we both have work tomorrow.”

He feels that small laugh under his hand. “I’ll take option A, please.”

Chirrut beams down at him. “Perfect.”

\----------------------------

**2019: Class of 1999 20th Reunion**

_“Undeniable, that we should be together-”_

Baze pauses mid-sentence in whatever he’d been saying to Galen and looks up at Chirrut, who has one hand placed on his shoulder.

“I put in a special request,” Chirrut says, his grin wide and suggestive, and half of Baze just wants to lift Chirrut up in his arms and carry him down the street to their hotel room. The other half falls sappily, happily, sloppily in love with his husband all over again. “Since we never did get that Prom dance.”

Baze stands, and takes Chirrut’s hands, and they lead each other out to the dance floor. After years of practice and knowing each other’s bodies well enough, there’s no negotiations or conflicts over who leads. It’s smooth, and easy, and wonderful, as Chirrut lays his head on Baze’s shoulder and they rock slowly to Brian McKnight.

And later, they will go back to that hotel room, and fuck each other’s brains out, and tomorrow, they’ll get brunch with the Ersos and then head back home to Oregon, where Chirrut got a job a few years ago. Where Baze followed. Where they finally got married, and bought a house. And lived happily ever after.

_It's so incredible_

_The way things work themselves out_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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